Dummy
by Tendo Rei
Summary: Sometimes you have to take friends where you can get them. Sometimes you just have to take friends, even at the cost of your soul.


**Dummy**

_Disclaimer: Don't own the Ventriloquist or Batman. _

* * *

It was in fall that they buried mama, her cheeks like snow under the special rouge the undertakers had to smear her cheeks with. He heard "blood loss" and "_right in front of him!_" in the gossipy whispers behind crisp linen handkerchiefs and black lace veils. She was so cold when papa had him kiss her one last time, her cheek stiff as the hospital mattress. He had been fevered by a morbid curiosity to roll her eyelids back to see if they were really replaced with glass fakes, like Jake in Sunday school said, but kept his itching hand at his side for papa's sake. Poor papa. No man in the family had ever cried, at any funeral ever, but mama had been so young and bright and dear to him- poor papa! He held his hand twice as hard, more than a little thrilled at this meager contact his normally reserved father allowed.

Papa's eyes grew unnaturally bright when they lowered her in the ground, and for a short while he had to pretend to whisper something to Vinnie, short, sharp staccato sounds that could've been sobs. _He_ fidgeted and fingered his stiff bow tie, thought it looked a little ridiculous on such a young boy but the nice tailor had insisted it _was_ the last tie even after a chorus of whispers with Jimmy Twolegs who had taken him to get fitted for his first formal suit (too many funerals, not enough important ones) and he thought it made him look a little like Howdy Doody, especially with his taxi-door ears and hair that refused to be smoothed, slicked, or tamed in any way. He felt a little grown up in the suit at first, then just hot. It itched around the neck and cuffs, and was too tight. He hated to think he might have to wear one for the rest of his life when he grew up and got a job in the business.

The coffin creaked to a halt and the close friends and relatives were called upon to cast dirt upon the departed. First, papa, who dropped his dirt limply and had to step back rather quickly. Next, Aunt Eileen, mama's slightly pinched sister who had gained a hollow look when news of her sister's untimely demise reached her. Next was Grampa, all the way up from Florida and the last time they would ever see him alive, then him. He unpicked his fingers, one by one, in a strange sort of ceremonial gesture even he didn't quite understand. He heard the dirt thud gently against the blond pine. He whispered "'Bye, mama." And felt a pang right where Jake said his heart was.

* * *

"_Heya kiddo, wanna see a trick?"_

"…_Really? You're talking to me? Someone like _you_ is talking to me?"_

"_Sure kid…unless you see any _other_ pint-sized Frankie Sinatra's wandering around. What, did your ma dress ya?"_

"…_Mymum'sdead."_

"_Aw, sorry to hear that kid. But never mind that, looky what I can do!"_

"_Wow!…can you do it again?"_

* * *

Papa didn't talk to him or even look at him much any more. Aunt Eileen came to stay for a bit, then there was a bad bit of business with papa's friend Johnny and she went back to Baltimore. No one would play with him, and he didn't blame them. He was quite a bore, even **he** could see that. No one wanted to play with a weird kid who wore such heavily starched shirts and only wanted to talk about magic and figures and things like that. Even his pa's friend's kids avoided him, content to whoop and holler in the garden and play Invasion of Normandy and fat Eddie was always the Nazi, holding his soft, heaving sides. Even he didn't say hi when they came over.

He didn't mind. He liked to read. He was getting to like being alone, too. He discovered that when he was alone, he didn't constantly criticize himself for not being the strong boy his father wanted, the man to take over his business. His papa would loyally praise his smarts in meetings (you should see the boy with a paper and pencil, my god!), but his associates would exchange knowing grins, asking smarmily how his son was doing in sports (has he taken to football yet?) and papa would come home in a dark mood, and the only thing that would cheer him up was a dram of good whiskey and one of mama's head scratches. Only mama was dead now, and when papa came home he gave his son a sort of twisted look, like he would like to be able to hit him but couldn't.

Other times papa just looked sick, and if he reached for his big, strong hand to hold it papa would flinch away. It made him feel sick inside too, like a burr of clover caught up inside his chest. He hit himself a couple of times, to see if it would help. It didn't.

Eventually he gave up trying to comfort papa, which was akin to painting a brick wall with his tongue; it hurt him and didn't really accomplish anything. So he absorbed himself in study, in the mystic and forbidden arts available at the five-and-dime. One day he performed the astounding coin-drop trick for the maid and genuinely impressed her, and when she clapped sincerely he felt a small spark of happiness, a drop of sunlight his mother hadn't taken with her to the grave. So, even though his father would never, ever approve in a million years, he began performing magic in secret. For maids, for schoolboys who would've belted him if his father hadn't been who he was, for the occasional girl if he could stop blushing and stammering long enough. A private act of rebellion and a measure to save his sanity at the same time. And one day, performing magic, he had met Woody.

* * *

"…_Say kid, whatcha thinking?"_

"_I'm thinkin' about my mama. Pop's real sad without her. I miss her."_

"_What am I? Chopped liver?"_

"_Sh-shucks no! You're more important to me than anyone else, excepting my papa and, gosh, maybe __**three**__ other people!"_

"_Then why we gotta hide like this, kid? You 'shamed of me? Think my breath stinks? Or is it you that's ashamed? Don't want anyone seein' your bow tie?"_

"_It's not-… what's wrong with my bow tie?"_

"_You ain't exactly deano, kid. I don't think you can pull off the lounge lizard look."_

"_I'm-I'm not wearing it like __**that**__! I-I'm wearing it like a science professor, o-or a talk show host or-"_

"_Or a fuller brush salesman? You really got to lose the throat ornament, kid. It bobs up and down when you talk."_

"_Is that a problem?"_

"_Well…"_

* * *

Woody had grinned his daredevil grin that was so permanent it seemed painted on, and asked to see another of his tricks. Puffed up like a pigeon, he produced an egg, two handkerchiefs, a bag of peppermints and a ball of cotton twine in quick succession from Woody's pockets to the applause of the bystanders. The man with Woody, who didn't introduce himself and showed yellow teeth when he grinned, watched his act with interest. Woody's expression stayed the same, more interested in what lay just beyond your shoulder than you. But he was a good egg. Sure, he heckled and guffawed when you made a slipup, but what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right? At least that's what Woody said. Besides, he laughed at the end of every trick, and made you laugh too, even if his jokes stung a bit.

They went for a little walk afterwards, just him, Woody, and Woody's friend. Any other time he would've been to afraid to even go _near_ a stranger, but today was different. Today was a bright blue, sunshiny day, a day perfect for magic Woody thought and said so. That was how Woody was different, he said words as they came to him, none of the tiptoeing around certain words and phrases that was the norm for everyone _he_ knew. He had none of papa's reserve, he was just so raw and open and free about everything that you couldn't help just _loving_ Woody, even if he was a little on the sarcastic side. Every little action (heya gonna _eat_ that booger?) garnered a greater verbal response, until he wanted to just walk on in silence. But Woody never shut off, he babbled on about everything and nothing as they neared an alley. All three of them; him, Woody, and Woody's friend.

Here Woody's friend cast around for any cops, told Woody to be quiet for a second, and hunkered down next to his ear.

"So, you like Woody. You'd like to be…spesh'l friends?" He said, his warm, moist breath raising goose bumps. Yes, yes he would, very much so.

"Well, good. I think he'd be happier staying wi' you than just slugg'n along wit' me. I'll tell him to go wit' you, and he'll go, and you'll have a friend to play with." Boy, wouldn't that just be the _best_! "But there's sumthin' you gotta do for me kid, sumthin'…pers'nal." …What did he have to do?

Later, he emerged triumphantly from the alley, his hand tucked into Woody's, determinedly _not_ looking back at the now smug man puffing on a tattered cigarette. His eyes remained latched on the far horizon, as they had been during the entire time in the alley. It had been strange and uncomfortable and most probably _not_ okay, but he had Woody with him now, and that was all that mattered. He felt strange, sort of buzzing, like his head was full of bees. He was magically light and everything was nice in a surreal sort of way; it was as if he was outside his body and controlling it with marionette strings, jerking his knees up and down while whistling an artificially happy tune. He wasn't a real boy any more, someone had taken his real body and replaced it with a fake. He was a puppet-boy playing a part that didn't fit him right, but that was okay. He had Woody and nothing else mattered. Unless papa found out.

* * *

"_Whya cryin' kid? I __**said**__ sorry, what else do you want?"_

"_I w-want __**friends**__, Woody. I wanna be normal, like other people. I just want pop proud of me."_

"_Shucks, kid. We both know that's never gonna happen. You're good with your hands, but you should keep your mouth shut most of the time."_

"…_That wasn't very nice, Woody."_

"_The truth ain't __**nice**__, kiddo. You're a bad frontman, you never drop your cards but you drop the lines and __**that's**__ what people are payin' attention to, not your nimble little fingers. You need a talker, a wingman, someone to distract the crowds while you do your little fiddly bits. It'll take a genius, an ultra-smooth operator, a man of unrivaled wit…why not me?"_

"_Why not?"_

"_Yeah!"_

"_Well…Woody?"_

"_Yeah?"_

"_I don't want pop to find out."_

"_Don't worry kid, he won't."_

* * *

The door creaked open and George Wesker, papers in hand, glanced up and commented on the weather. It died in his throat.

His son half-sat, half-sprang on the bed, looking as if he had been caught doing something indecent. His now frequently used bowtie hung open at his throat, his glasses slipped down slightly over one watery blue eye. His shirt was wrinkled and buttoned wrong, his belt was undone. And he had a ventriloquist's dummy on one arm.

"Arnie." George Wesker said hoarsely. "Oh Jesus. Oh god." He buried his face in his hands.

Arnold Wesker felt extremely guilty, he had made pop sad **again**, and was probably a wicked, wicked boy who would go to hell like Jake said. He snuck a guilty look at Woody, whose frozen grin leered mockingly at him. He would probably get the belt now, and rightly so.

"Pop?" George Wesker uncovered his eyes to see his only son before him; head bowed submissively, belt leather held up as an offering. A recrimination died in his throat, to be replaced by a lump. He patted his son's back with shaking hands.

"It's okay, son. You can put that down." He couldn't bring himself to hit the boy. Not any more. George Wesker, having discovered his son's secret, was now a fully broken man.

Tremblingly, hesitantly, his son lowered his arm but would not meet his gaze. He plodded over to the bed and lay Woody down carefully before sitting himself, hands clasped in his lap, eyes to the floor. George struggled to find them, the words he needed to say, that his young son _needed_ to hear. Godammit, why was it so hard? Annemarie would've found the right words, soothed the boy as she clasped his head to her breast.

Poor Arnie, sitting there helpless, a chick waiting for the mother bird to return to the nest and teach it to fly. But she wouldn't be back. Not ever. All Arnie had left was a father who was all thumbs when it came to the gentler manners of the heart. Had it been anything else, _anything_, he might've been able to handle it. If he had caught Arnie in leotards with a stack of Dance Quarterly, if he found Arnie had been taking potshots at cars, shooting up behind the school dumpster, he could do something. But what did you do when you found your kid like…_this_? There was an off chance that he was just rehearsing for some kiddy pageant, but George doubted it. This was deep. He should've seen it coming, the boy had no friends, had just withdrawn into himself when his ma had died, only had a big rockhead of a father who-

"I'm gonna get sent away now, aren't I?" The mutter, barely pitched above an exhalation, still hit his ears like a thrown steak knife. He wheeled his head around as if slapped, the knot in his chest tightened.

"Wha?...No, Arnie, I'm not gonna send you away. I can't." It was true. His entire life, the encapsulation of his failure as a father was packed into those two words. It was so much more than the severe damage his reputation would undergo if it got out that his son was a fruitcake. _He_ had been the impetus for his son's illness, should've seen it coming and had failed to prevent it, and now he couldn't just abandon the boy. Just like he couldn't raise a hand to him. It hurt too much. He looked so much like her, god; he even had her eyes…

"_Pop_." His son's tone slid from abashed to shocked. "Are you _crying_?"

Steel cables twisted themselves in his throat, tears leaked from his screwed-shut eyes.

"No, Arnie." He managed to choke out. "I ain't gonna send you awh-away." He sat himself heavily on the foot of Arnie's bed and began sobbing pitifully. He hadn't cried like this since Annie's horrific murder. And it _was_ murder. He didn't care what those Irish yobs thought, you didn't whack women. Especially mothers. Especially in front of their sensitive and mentally fragile children.

"Pop." He felt a little tug on his tie. "I'm _sorry_ pop, I didn't mean to…" What? What was he apologizing for? All these feelings were so new and complex, and he was only a child who had to see his mother die violently in front of him and his papa, his made-of-stone papa crumple like a baby when the orderly told him ma was DOA. So he did what many small children do. He put it away. Shoved it down deep, deep inside himself, to grow unchecked and unnoticed like a tumor.

"Pop. Papa?" George, hearing the hopeful note in his son's plea, uncovered his eyes. His son was tugging on his sleeve with both hands now, eyes shining behind his glasses, smile a little too bright.

"It's only a game, pa. I'll stop now if you want me to."

Relief flooded George Wesker's insides, tempered with a hot stab of guilt.

"Naw, son, the head shrinke- the, uh, _child_ _psychologist_ said you should, y'know, _express_ your feelings. Act 'em out. It's healthy." He intoned the words like a bad actor reading from a script that wasn't in his language.

"No, honest, pa, it's just a game!" He held up two fingers. "Honest injun! It's just a game I started playing with a couple of kids after school one day, I'll stop. I'll stop for you."

George Wesker tried to tell his son no, tried to assure him that his father wouldn't love him any less for being a total screwball, but he couldn't find the strength. Instead, he muttered a defeated "yeah, okay" and stood wearily up, tie dangling like a limp snake. He made to go.

"Pa, uh, pop? Can…can I have just _one_ more minute alone with Woody? Just one? I wanna say goodbye."

George froze, shoulders hunching, but made himself nod stiffly. He had to let the kid get rid of it himself, he couldn't just take it away and shove it in a woodchipper, like he'd dearly love to do. Instead, he left briskly to go to the bathroom and run the cold faucet over his head, then to go see about lunch. That left Arnie, a tiny, pallid figure, sitting alone in his too-big room full of toys and models and baseball paraphernalia, illuminated by a single stripe of sun that was fading quickly...

* * *

"…_Well, I guess this is g'bye Woody."_

"_I ain't gonna lie, I'm gonna miss you kid. But that great big horizon is callin' me; it's time to hit that dusty trail."_

"_Will I ever see you again?"_

"_Sure, kid. Someday. Sometime when you don't remember me anymore, I'll pop up and say hi."_

"_That'll be swell. Bye Woody."_

"_Bye, dummy."_

Arnie never spoke of that afternoon, smiling blankly when anyone tried to bring it up. He never did. Never. Except…

Except…

Except that one Sunday school when little Sally Lantz said his mama was in hell and he beat her madly, tearing her skirt with his teeth. Or that time in eighth grade when one of the jocks thought it was funny to sit on his glasses. He didn't think a coke bottle upside the head was very funny, though. And then there was the time at the DMV…and the time in that bar…and then at Blackgate prison…

"Hiya, dummy…"

* * *

_Author's note: another origin story? I'm addicted to rewriting history, I admit it. I finally read the showcase '94 about the Ventriloquist, and gears slowly began to grind in me Gulliver. I must admit I don't know the exact details of his origin, I had to fill in the gaps with our old friend Wikipedia, but I think it's okay. This story also owes a lot to the movie **Magic**, especially the little asides between Wesker and Woody. This is written partly in tribute to the author Spug, whose "Sanity Etched in Wood" and others made me love the Ventriloquist all over again. _


End file.
